the santa anas (dry off shore winds) have been blowing the last two days (think florida without the humidity) & they suck the moisture out of everything instantaneously: skin, eyeballs, plant life, soil. it’s itchy weather & (good for moisturizer manufacturers)
whatever is about to bloom busts out in this weather & hangs close to the ground (drooping listlessly, but dramatically — lilies are drag queens after all & understand the dramatic possibilities of any situation.)
the tiny air orchids (i’m sure they have a scientific name, but you’re not going to get that from me) seem shocked by the heat & turn their precious little faces (all orchids so sexual) to the heat of the sun.
at the same time, the cymbidiums seem to defy the heat & their lush-ousness (yes, i know it’s lusciousness, but i like the idea of being drunk on cymbidiums) is a reproach to the sun & its withering power. i’ve spent the last two days watering, watering, & have been thinking about water (it seeks its own level — a nasty reprimand, condescending & impertinent) but can you blame it?
the garden frog loves its cool, shady spot under the acacia, water adding to its patina (in fact the air it breathes brings it closer to reality each & every day.) i would not be surprised if it croaked rustily some day soon.
i drag the garden hose (75′ of un-kinkable green rubber–it weighs a ton when water is coursing through it) around the backyard from shade to bright sunlight spreading water, water everywhere (but a drop to drink always at my fingertips, mr. coleridge)
wait! was there a point to this post? water washes away the grit, the grime, the detritus of life (violently in a flood, beautifully as a waterfall, melancholy as a rainy day, refreshing, renewing, revitalizing) all the while seeking its own level (down, down, down.)